Who Asked You? (5 page)

“I’m pregnant and I’ve decided to have it. I know you’ve been hoping I’d become a model or an actress like you wanted to be but it’s not in my cards. Motherhood apparently is. Please be happy for me. And good morning.”

And she just stands there. Smiling. She’s too damn young to have a baby. She’s too damn smart to have a baby. She’s too damn stupid to have a baby. After graduating from Loyola two years ago in history, she’s been trying to “find herself” since she decided “history was not helping me grow.” She sounded just like a little Valley Girl, when we’ve always lived in the hood. What about the fucking Peace Corps? She even has an interview coming up! And what about that amazing voice, which she got from her father’s side of the family? I push the lever on this La-Z-Boy and spring up to a standing position. I tighten the sash on the robe. I’m forty-six years old. Too young to be anybody’s grandmother. Especially a baby’s. I clear my throat. “Are you kidding me?”

She lifts her T-shirt to show me her belly. It’s flat. “It’s in there. Growing.”

“And how pregnant might you be?”

“Six weeks. Be happy for us, Mom.”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“Me and Trevor.”

I want to say, “Fuck Trevor. He can take his Italian ass back to New Jersey where he came from.” But I wouldn’t dare.

I take a deep breath. Then another one. I want to try to say this nicely. “What in the hell are you going to do with a baby when neither you nor Trevor have a major source of income unless you count being a barista at Starbucks! What’s it going to drink: lattes?”

I see her mouth quivering. Then, “I thought you liked Trevor? He’s a great guy. And I love him. We’ll manage this.”

“I do like him, Tanna, but that has nothing to do with it. Where in the world are you two or three going to live?”

She brushes the front of her T-shirt with the palm of her hand a few times and leans against the wall, bumping up against BJ’s wall mirror that you can’t even see a clear image of yourself in anymore. “We were wondering if maybe you would let us stay in our house until we get on our feet. Trevor’s acting classes are really helping and he goes to auditions at least two or three times a week. He’s going to land something, soon, Mom. We both feel it in our gut. And don’t worry, unless I have terrible morning sickness, which I’m starting to feel already, I can find something to bring home a few dollars, too.”

“Like what?”

“I’m still weighing my options.”

I’m speechless. Weighing her options? Why is it young girls get pregnant and decide to have a baby because it’s romantic when they don’t have any idea how they’re going to take care of it let alone pay for it? Kids have like an eighteen- to twenty-three-year running tab. They are not a novelty. They are human beings. They live with you. You love them but they are guaranteed to get on your nerves and on some days you wish you could send them back. I look at my beautiful daughter standing there and, since it’s obvious that not having this baby is not even up for discussion, I just look at her and say, “I’m warning you right now. This is not going to be the Ritz-Carlton. There will be terms and conditions. I just need a day or so to process all of this.”

She runs over and hugs me so tight I’m thinking that if she squeezed me hard enough maybe the little walnut would just pop right out through her navel and things would be back to normal.

“I can still consider a singing career after the baby’s born, but the Peace Corps is out of the question.”

It’s pretty obvious to me that a college degree doesn’t have much of an impact on your heart. But just to make sure, I pose another question. “Are you sure about this? A baby? They grow up, you know, and walk across the street to your best friend’s house in the early morning hours to tell you they’re pregnant, expecting you to be excited for them, which you are but you’re also very, very scared.”

“I’m sure, Mom. Positively. And I love you, too. You won’t even know we’re there.”

“Wait a second here. How soon does Trevor want to move in?”

“Would today be too soon?”

“You mean as in today, today?”

She nods and nods and nods.

I hold my hand up and wave it like a white flag, and she runs over, kisses and hugs me again, and then dashes out to go give the baby daddy the good news. I flop down in the La-Z-Boy and pull the lever until it stops and lean all the way back. Up until a few minutes ago, I have always been proud of both of my children. Max was definitely the more focused of the two, though I tried not to compare them just because they were twins. When Max told me he wanted to study viticulture and enology at UC Davis, we were sitting by the pool with our feet in, and I started kicking (stalling).

“What in God’s name is this the study of?” He started laughing and dove in like he always did when we used to sit out there. When he came to the surface he swam over and said, “For the record, viticulture is all about the science and cultivation of growing grapes and enology is the study of winemaking. They go together. How cool is that?” He ended up getting a bachelor of science in this and then moved to France to study with some masters or heavy-duty vineyards or something. Miss Montana, on the other hand, flits. She changed her major five or six times before settling on history and would’ve changed it again but she had to declare or else. I don’t know, sometimes these pretty girls in Los Angeles don’t take themselves seriously enough.

I almost jump out of this recliner when I hear the doorbell again. I’m sick of doorbells. It had better be Nurse Kim and not Trevor. He should be on his knees telling me “Thank you.”

“It’s open!” I yell, and in walks my favorite person, BJ’s evil sister, Arlene. She despises me because twenty-six years ago I stole a black man from a nonexistent black woman.

“What are you doing here half-naked and where’s my sister?”

“She took the little ones to school and then she’s going on to the hotel for part of the day, and for your information this is called a robe and I came here to sit with Lee David until Nurse Kim gets here, and if I’m not being too forward: Wouldn’t it have been more considerate to have called first?”

She cuts those eyes at me as if to say, “Bitch, who do you think you’re talking to?”

I am not moved. So I cut my eyes back at her as if to say, “Bitch, you.” I would put my hands on my hips for special effect but I’ve already had one major surprise this morning. I wouldn’t want to provoke my best friend’s sister into doing something stupid. Plus, she doesn’t know I’m a black belt.

During this one-minute standoff, the screen door opens and in comes Nurse Kim in a denim miniskirt and a tight pink T-shirt with cleavage I would kill for and pink wedge sandals. She struts right past Arlene. Nurse Kim is one sexy nurse. Her legs are long and smooth. She’s a pretty reddish brown, the color I’d want to be if I were black. “Good morning, everybody,” she says. “I hope nothing’s wrong, is it?”

I shake my head no and head toward the screen door to get out of what could potentially become an inferno. But Arlene beats me to the punch and lets the door slam in my face. Nurse Kim winks at me and then yells: “Miss Arlene, hold up a minute!”

Arlene turns around like she’s ready to jump into the ring. “What?”

“Please tell Omar I said hey!” and she makes a soft fist and holds it next to her ear like it’s a telephone. I love her.

L
ast night between her spin class and Bible study, Venetia called and told me that Betty Jean called her and told her that Trinetta had almost OD’d while she was on the phone with her! That Trinetta had the audacity to leave those kids over there with Betty Jean for almost a week and now Betty Jean is planning on keeping them until Trinetta can prove to her that she’s clean. “Which could very well mean never,” I said.

“I pray for our niece every single night, Arlene.”

“Well, maybe Trinetta’s not picking up on God’s radar.”

“I’m worried about Betty Bean too, Arlene. At this rate she could end up like all those grandmothers you read about in magazines and see in newspapers around Christmas or on
Oprah
or after the Super Bowl when the players on the winning team send shout-outs to their grandmas: not their mothers or fathers and not their wives and not their girlfriends. They’re just waving away and yelling at the top of their lungs: ‘I want to send my love to my grandma, who if it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t be here: Love you, Grandma!’ These women almost all get stuck raising their grandchildren out of guilt, and who can blame them? How in the world does she think she can possibly manage it all? This happened to Ernesta, the woman who goes to my church and ended up having a heart attack herself—may she rest in peace—not that I’m thinking something like this could happen to BB but it would sure help if she let Christ into her life to help steer her in the right direction. And if she lost thirty or forty pounds and stopped complaining about her knees bothering her and she got on over to the gym, wouldn’t you agree, Arlene?”

Just to shut her up I said, “Yes, I do.” I have to be very careful what I say to Venetia and how I say it. Swearing is out. In my opinion, she prays far too much, and you’d think she’d also have some faith in self-actualization, self-determination, and common sense. She also has a big mouth, and even though gossip is supposed to be a sin because it’s usually done with a tinge of malice, Venetia likes to repeat things. But she puts her own little spiritual spin on it, to justify it, I suppose, and as a result, she can turn your original comment into something you didn’t necessarily intend. Sometimes I wonder how she managed to graduate from college, but then again, it was a state college.

I abhor getting this kind of emotional information secondhand but Betty Jean wouldn’t dream of telling me, because she knows that unlike our baby sister whose spark plugs don’t always fire, I don’t bite my tongue, which is precisely why as soon as I get Omar up and give him his breakfast, I’m driving over there to give her a piece of my mind before she heads off to work.

I cannot for the life of me understand why Betty Jean continues to act like she’s so surprised that Trinetta is a legitimate drug addict when the child has been high off and on for years. Mostly on. Which is precisely why I called Child Protective Services on her that time I stopped over to her tiny ghetto apartment to take those kids some toys for Christmas so Betty Jean wouldn’t have to spend all of her little paycheck on them like she is known to do, and there they were sitting on that ugly plaid sofa eating Pringles and drinking Diet Pepsi all by themselves.

“Where’s your mama?” I asked Luther. He was five or six.

“Her went to the store.”

Her? I pray that one day these kids learn how to speak English. If my niece had walked through that door at that very moment I probably would’ve slapped her trifling ass down that hallway and back. Some people should not have children. Period. “Who’s watching you boys?”

“Me. ’Cause I’m a big boy. What you got in them bags?”

I walked over to that stingy silver Christmas tree sitting on top of a fruit crate and put some packages on the bare tile underneath it. “These are from Santa,” I said.

“Where you see him at?” the little one, Ricky, asked.

This is the most I think I’ve ever heard him say at one time. “I saw him today. He’s at the mall.”

“I don’t believe you,” Luther said, matter-of-factly.

“I wouldn’t lie to you boys. Don’t you believe in Santa Claus?” Right after I asked, I wished I hadn’t. I didn’t want them to say no. I wanted them to believe in something.

“Yeah, but the ones at the mall is not real,” Luther said.

That little one just shook his head in agreement. He needs to be tested. “Look, how long has your mama been at the store?”

They both hunched their shoulders.

Just then I heard the door open and in she walked with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Not a single bag. A thin, milky film had formed a circle around her mouth. She looked just like Betty Jean thirty years ago, except for those disgusting dreadlocks.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes at her. “I just stopped by to bring some gifts for the boys.”

“Don’t you know how to call first?”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“No disrespect intended. Sorry, Aunt Arlene. I just got a lot of things on my mind.”

“Don’t we all,” I said, but I was not about to let her off the hook. “Why would you leave these kids in here for one minute by themselves, Trinetta?”

“I just ran downstairs for a minute. Look. Thanks for the gifts and for stopping by but I need to fix them something to eat.”

“And what might that be?”

“That might not concern you, Aunt Arlene, but thank you so much for asking.” And she walked over to the door, opened it, and put all of her weight on one flip-flopped foot.

As I waved to the kids, she yelled out behind me. “Tell Omar I said hey. He is still living at home, right?”

I nodded yes.

She nodded too. “He lost any weight?”

“As a matter of fact he has. But don’t let it concern you. Merry Christmas.”

“Jingle bell rock to you too.”

Trinetta has not spoken to me since. To this day I don’t know if CPS ever showed up or not. Probably not. They get too many of these types of calls. Especially from neighborhoods like this. But this is the reason so many of these kids end up on the six o’clock news.

Why people take drugs baffles me to no end. Especially when they can’t afford them. And why can’t they do them
before
they have children? If you’re that dissatisfied with the quality of your life, change it! I’m no saint. I experimented with a number of popular drugs in college. And I enjoyed them. Enough to understand why some people get addicted. If I hadn’t had specific life goals, I probably could’ve taken the low road. But I didn’t like feeling that good. I enjoyed being depressed, disappointed, and miserable when it was necessary, because it built character and it was how I evolved and came to be the woman I am now.

Betty Jean has come to Trinetta’s rescue too many times to count. Some people think they’re helping their kids when they do so much for them, but it’s not true. I’m sick of hearing about that girl’s trials and tribulations. She could’ve been cleaning teeth all these years but has yet to graduate. And she was such a smart child. But then again, Betty Jean’s parenting skills cannot be found in any how-to book.

Deep down inside, I think the reason Betty Jean doesn’t confide in me is because she has never really forgiven me for trimming her hair when she was little. Was it my fault she didn’t care for the pixie? She also blames me for introducing her to Lee David, knowing he was almost old enough to be her uncle. But I didn’t twist her arm. I could say a lot of things about her that she has no idea I have stored in my memory bank, but I don’t like throwing things in her face just for spite. She has done and continues to do a lot of stupid things, and had she gone to college, where you can learn to think critically, it might have helped her make more intelligent decisions.

For instance, Venetia told me she borrowed against her little raggedy house to get help for Trinetta, because the bank called Venetia for a reference. Look how well that’s going. Then she went and bought the girl a car and is paying the insurance; she uses Venetia’s address to get lower premiums. And I know for a fact she has paid Trinetta’s rent, but she lives in a Section 8 apartment, so how high could her rent possibly be? Ninety-six dollars, that’s how much. And how many men have those boys called Daddy? Trinetta’s had enough hoodlums living with her, you would think it might occur to her to get one that could help her with those kids or the rent. But apparently that has never crossed her mind. Which is the main reason why it just gets on my nerves to see how much money Betty Jean has spent on her and her kids. She has bought enough school clothes for an orphanage and she practically lives at Costco. Not to mention being Mrs. Claus year after year.

I try not to compare. Even though Omar was born with a few health issues that I’ve tried helping him learn to cope with as well as overcome, he’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t know what I’d do without him. Of course college is not for everybody and he’s had a hard time figuring out what interests him. He’s still young, and I’m patient and confident that one day soon he’s going to walk through the right door.

I knock four times on Omar’s door. I don’t know why that boy won’t get up even after his alarm goes off. “Get up, Omar, or you’re going to be late for work!”

“I’m up,” he groans.

I don’t believe him. “I should hear water running, and I don’t.”

“I think I’m getting a sore throat, Mom.”

“Open the door, Omar.”

“It’s not locked.”

He’s sitting on the side of the bed in striped pajamas I got him a few weeks ago. They were tight then, but they look a little loose now. I walk over and feel his forehead. It’s warm. The last time he had a sore throat it turned out to be strep. “You think you need to stay home today?”

“I think I’ll be all right once I take a hot shower.”

“Are you sure? I can call your job if you really aren’t up to it, Omar. We’ve got Theraflu in the kitchen and I can make some chicken noodle soup if you want me to.”

He stands up. “I’m fine, Mom. I think it was just a tickle. Please don’t go calling my job.”

“You want me to take your temperature? Just to be on the safe side?”

He heads toward his bathroom.

“Omar, have you lost a few pounds?”

He yells through the bathroom door. “Six to be exact. Glad you noticed.”

His weight isn’t an issue for me. He’s still handsome. He’s the spitting image of his trifling daddy, who chose not to be in his life because he claimed I tricked him by getting pregnant so he would leave his wife, which was pretty much true. I needed leverage. The last I heard, they’re still together. Omar has never met him, because I told him I didn’t know where his father was. I thought that was best, and we’ve done just fine without him in our lives. It’s for this reason that I’ve probably gone a little overboard parenting him. I know my sisters think I baby him, but I don’t really care what they think. He’s my only child, and as his mother and father I have done and continue to do all that I can do to help him feel more confident. I’ve told him year after year that everybody wasn’t meant to be lean and lanky. “But I’m tired of being fat,” he said when we flew to Vegas for his twenty-first birthday. He needed a buckle extension but I reminded him that even pregnant women need them, too. That may not have been the most tactful analogy, but I couldn’t take it back. Omar’s been on every diet under the sun and he just gets so frustrated, it breaks my heart, which is why he pleaded with me to stop baking.

I walk down the hall to my bedroom and close the windows because the forecast is calling for rain, which is a rarity in Los Angeles. Groups of gray clouds are clustering above us. I head downstairs to look for the thermometer and make him some hot oatmeal. Before I get a chance to put it in the microwave he’s in the kitchen, dressed.

“Mom. I’m fine. Oh, and after work I’m meeting some of my buddies for happy hour.” He gives me a quick kiss on my forehead and heads for the garage. “Don’t make dinner for me tonight, either, Mom. And have a great day.”

Happy hour? Since when did he start going to happy hour? I don’t feel like calling him because I know sometimes I get on his nerves. But something is different about him. The past few months he’s changed. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. I put my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, feed the fish, and water the last two living plants. I go stand in front of Omar’s door and turn the handle. It doesn’t open! Since when did he start locking it? I reach above the doorframe and get the metal key he obviously doesn’t know I know is there, and I open the door and just stand there for a minute. His bed is made. That’s from years of going to camp and being a Cub Scout. I look around. He’s got a poster of Beyoncé on one wall and Janet Jackson on another and the rest are rappers. His computer is off and I know it’s password-protected, because I learned that over a year ago. You just want to make sure your child isn’t doing some freaky stuff or anything illegal.